


I Do It All To Have You

by TechnicolourRomantics



Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos)
Genre: 1980s, Canon Related, Lust, M/M, Masturbation, Teasing, Video Cameras, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourRomantics/pseuds/TechnicolourRomantics
Summary: Men, mic stands, and an alternate music video for an (in)famous solo venture.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	I Do It All To Have You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pink_and_Velvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/gifts).



> At some point in conversation, our lovely attentions turned to Simon and his overt mic stand relationship, and I came across a particular Notorious era picture that screamed I Do What I Do.
> 
> From there, an alternate take on an already blazing video was born. 💙🔥 Enjoy and hope this adds a little spice to your day!

_Camera, fade in._

Neon strips line the walls, washing an intrusion over the rows of empty seats. The colour is a hypnotising fog that a slow hand can seek out and touch. Or be touched by. 

John sits alone in the theatre, spaces behind him and spaces in front.

His attention is captured by the plain screen that fills the wall straight ahead. It lights up as a large solid blue rectangle, and the intensity of the projection threatens to hurt his eyes. 

But he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not when he could miss out on the beauty yet to take form on screen. He thinks he might know what it is, and the embers simmering in the pit of his abdomen only stokes the anticipation that he will be correct. 

He steadily drums his finger along the plastic armrest of the seat next door. The _rap rap rap_ on plastic is deafening. Waiting for the cue is a cruel game. 

His gaze is sharpened when the rectangle shifts into a silhouette in a hazy blue space. A room that mirrors the aura John has himself tethered tightly to.

As the drums resound and his own vocals crawl ravenously on all fours through the theatre, the silhouette blurs into focus.

He makes out a body. Solid. Male. Head bowed and spiked hair sticking out like a bouqueted offering, gripping a thin pole. John recognises the object against the backlight.

Microphone stand. 

A heat pools in him. 

Simon.

His breath catches on the realisation. Then an exhale at the thought of what was to come - for his eyes only. Or the lucky birds, sodden and sated at bedtime when this footage spilled out. 

Just for him, he assures himself. 

Visions caress his eyelids as the sequence begins with a close-up of the gloved grip on the stand, fingers encased in polished leather. 

The view swings to the lion-like prowl that the silhouette loses itself in. The lithe figure sways to the rhythms of the beat, hips undulating, undressing the vocals.

The sight throbs deeply in John’s veins, and fires a shot through his bloodstream. 

He gets shot once more as Simon shifts gracefully to push his body up to the shining cold metal. Straddling it steadily between his legs, his body slides down slowly, jaw dipped out to afford a devastating side profile as he makes the descent. 

He does it with ease, wordlessly, while John’s eyes fixate on the slithering contact of tented denim to the pole. Enthralled and hungry, his gaze longs to be privy to more.

Look now. Fantasise later. 

Wishes are granted like falling stars, slipping from grace as the darkened figure on the floor starts to roll his centre into the object, knelt legs flexing gently out wider with each thrumming stroke.

The place between John’s legs tingles thickly. A strained whimper dances through the theatre.

Stabbing, swirling synths are decorated with cuts of Simon’s eyes, the beam of the floodlight branding whitened rectangles onto his visage. 

Round blues collide with browns.

The predator trapped in those eyes melds with John himself, binding him to the screen. They tempt him into the projection as their visions fuse, as if a reflection of one another.

Simon lowers his head and starts to glide his hands steadily up and down the stand. With each hovering touch, John’s breath stiffles. He gulps. Need starts to mount him, clambering flush against his body.

He complies to its demands: hands darting under the fold of his coat, his fingers glide lightly along the outline of himself. He basks in his own heaving breaths as they start to escape out of their own accord.

Mirror movements continue. 

He teases himself, in instinctual challenge to Simon’s own. 

It’s arrowed straight back as Simon tongues his lips. They’re left wet, luminous and succulent against the neon blue. John shifts in his chair, licking his own slowly in reply, dampening each ridge of dried skin. 

He can taste the intoxicating tension as it settles on his tongue. Eyes still on the screen, he rubs his tongue on it further, saliva wearing it away between his parched lips.

Hands splayed quiveringly out, in a manner fit for clutching a bedsheet in ecstasy, they travel to palm the stand. John can almost hear the crunch of the leather as Simon fingers curl around the pole, guiding it closer with his lean arms to fit against the curve of his body. 

The beam catches Simon as he roughly cocks his hips, seemingly sensing that the music is on its homebound stretch to climax. As is John.

He makes it count.

His back arches tautly. 

Neck angles back. 

His mouth falls open and a small wisp of cloudy vapour tumbles milkily out, expelled from the heat of his silhouette.

Body filling the entirety of the screen, Simon stays in position, laid out on an altar for John to devour.

_John. John Gray._

In the theatre, John's lips quirk at the fitting parallel, but the dark heat burns too bright for him to take it anymore. 

He leans back in the padded chair, hand moving again as he starts to palm himself. Dry palm kneading at warm skin. 

Touching himself the way he wants to be touched.

Audible noises his mouth is starting to make is drowned out by the luscious lilt of the saxophone. A sense of vague embarrassment that accompanies the thought of his ministrations being caught on video makes its way into his consciousness, _but they can crop out things, can’t they? And overdub anyway._

_Or not_. The idea kindles more fire in him. _Very fitting for the subject at hand._

_Yes, hand._

He tries to laugh but falters, succumbing to the torture as it licks at his skin in little pinpricks, overcome by fire. 

Pleasuring himself, alone, in a darkened cinema.

He steals a glance to the screen once more amidst his lust, meeting Simon’s timely eyes once again. Momentarily awash with light, they’re facing the camera and he winks. 

Like a sniper taking out its target. 

John groans deeply as his head lolls back, eyes falling shut at the desire that rips through him. He is forced to miss out on the closing bars bars of his swirling tune as his hand starts to urgently stroke. 

The room morphs into a blue blur, eyes unfocused. His head plays a slideshow of the body stretched along the pole. His hand plays the notes that will bring him to completion. 

He moans lowly in rapid succession as he strokes himself, envisioning it to be Simon’s hands working him into a pleasured stupor. 

“Whatcha up to?” a low, playful whisper slides warmly into his ear.

He lets out a sharp gasp at being caught, lidded eyes flying open. His free hand flies out reflexively, hitting an jacketed arm pushed up to his own in the semi-darkness. A tilt of his head to the side matches a shadowed presence to the whisper. 

Shadowed and hidden. Save for the sharpened hair glinting a telltale blond, and the pair of watching eyes that drifts intently down to John’s opened fly. A smirk crosses those lips at the hand frozen there. 

He gulps at the attention but his hand longs to further the act, jolted by the realisation that the figure onscreen is now in flesh for him to reach and grab. 

His hand slides away from the opened zip, feeling akin liquid nitrogen, ready to crackle and smoke at any burning moment. He clutches at the fabric Simon is wearing. His roughened fingers plead for more. 

He gets more. 

Breathing fades in importance when the shadow slinks forward to loom in front of him, blocking his view of the screen behind. It’s set again to a blinding blue, lathering John in its hue while his eyes are lost greedily in Simon’s.

He doesn’t breathe as the other man closes in.

Nor does he when large hands lunge out to grab his face, harshly bruising their lips together in a swirling, moistened kiss. Tongues flicker and taste their shared wet. 

Forget breathing, he’ll do all he does to have Simon. And Simon would do all he does to have him.

Their eyes lock, outlines barely discernible in the dim neon wash.

Teasing cool fingers slide between the soft seat and John’s burning back.

And soon, it’s no longer a microphone stand the other man has his thighs around and hands all over. 

It’s him. 

_Camera, fade to black._

**Author's Note:**

> Wish this was a real thing, huh? 🥵😘
> 
> The picture that spawned it all:  
> https://www.pinterest.at/pin/461900505524464903/


End file.
